Tales from the Blade
by Shauna Lee
Summary: My little collection of single stories in the Witchblade Universe all gathered into one place.
1. A Note from the Writer

I've been working on a long, continuous story for a while, and decided to take a break to add some more to a short story (Loneliness Shared). After thinking about it a little while, I decided I wasn't interested in turning it into another series of chapters, but wanted to keep it more like single snapshots, moments between Sara and Ian, or anything else that may be going on, and I decided to put my other single stories here as well, to sort of make a collection of short stories, so there's some older stuff here with the new. They won't necessarily have anything to do with any other story, may be from season 1 or 2, just whatever I feel like writing at the time, and won't particularly be in any sort of order. It will give me the freedom to perhaps explore a little of what's going on with Gabriel and Allyson too at some point. And perhaps while I'm working on the short stories I'll get some inspiration for my series so I can get more done with that.  
  
The usual disclaimers apply, of course. None of the characters are mine, they all belong to the talented folks at Top Cow. I don't make any money from this harmless form of entertainment. And please remember that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. 


	2. Noone Notices the Servants

A/N:  After last night's episode Palindrome (Season 2), I got this idea in my head that Ian needed someone to set him straight.  The writers have had him flip-flopping between worshipping Sara and hating her, and it's driving me nuts.  He just isn't acting like our Ian should act.  Especially with Aras.  Someone needed to hit him over the head with the truth, but who?

**Noone Notices the Servants**

As Aras left to get ready for her fight that night, Ian was left sitting in his father's throne-like chair, staring unseeing at the fire blazing in the hearth before him.  He was alone for about two minutes before one of the housekeeping staff came in and began dusting.  Trained as an observer, he couldn't help noticing the strange, darting looks she was giving him from under her bangs.  After about five minutes of this he had had enough.  He rose from the chair and turned to confront her with a cold look in his eyes.  She stared back, holding her ground, a fact that impressed Ian greatly.  Something in her eyes, her stance, was familiar, but he could not place it.  His glare became a frown.

"You never clean this late at night," Ian observed mildly.  "Yours is a day job."

"Yes, sir," she replied steadily.

"Why are you here now?" he demanded.

"I have always been here when you needed me, sir," she replied.  Ian blinked at the unexpected answer.

"I don't need you," Ian growled.

"Yes, you do," she replied.  "In every life, every incarnation, you have needed me, just as you need me now."

"What do you mean," he asked, caught off guard by the answer and its implications.

"You have no idea who I am, do you," she asked.  "You remember other things, I had thought you would remember me."

"I do not," Ian said, an edge to his voice warning of his waning patience.

"I am, and have always been, your faithful servant.  When you were Marc Antony, I was your trusted aide.  When you were Joan of Arc's Lieutenant, I was your squire.  I have always been there to help you, as you have always been there to help the Wielder."

"I don't need your help now, so go away." Ian turned from her and returned to his seat.  She did not leave.  Instead, she spoke in low and even tones, as if she were his conscience.

"You have strayed from you appointed path," she said.  "It is your destiny, life after life, down through the ages, to protect and serve the true Wielder.  Sara is the true Wielder of this life, this age, and you are betraying her."

"It is she who has betrayed me," Ian snarled.  "She killed my father."

"I saw what you saw," she said.  "Kenneth Irons embraced his own death that night.  It was not Sara's doing, as you well know.  Look past your hatred and grief and see the truth.  All she wanted was for Irons to stop attacking her.  Your rage is misplaced."

"She hates me," Ian said bitterly.

"What cause have you given her to like you?  You declared yourself her enemy at the death of Irons.  You called the Black Dragons down upon her.  Time after time you have challenged her, taunted her.  Yet when you went to her to beg for understanding, she gave you compassion.  And when you challenged Mobius to undo what you had done, she came to defend you and restored to you your very life.  How then do you repay her?  With rage, hatred, betrayal.  This is unworthy of you. And so is Aras."

"Aras' bloodline is just as noble as Sara's," Ian insisted stubbornly.

"Sara was chosen to balance the evil of the world.  Aras is evil.  The Witchblade has chosen its Wielder, and it is not for you or Kenneth Irons to challenge that choice.  You once told him his arrogance was astounding, and you were correct.  The Witchblade can see into the heart, and it knows Aras is no true Wielder.  She lacks the nobility, honesty, and compassion that are inherent in Sara.  The very traits that make Sara a true Wielder are absent in Aras.  You cling to Aras because she appears to be that which you desire, but she is a shadow of Sara, and she is using you as a means to power.  She does not, cannot love you.  Aras will never give her heart, for she loves nothing but power."

"I do not care," Ian snapped, sounding petulant.

"You do care.  You know in your heart your place is with Sara, guarding her back and aiding her in every way possible.  Yet you choose Aras because she is attainable, easy.  You have stumbled badly but you have not yet fallen.  Dispose of this Pretender and keep your promise to Sara to guard her from harm."

"No," Ian said sharply.  "I have made my choice.  This is what Father wants, and I will give it to him."

"Then you have truly fallen," she sighed.  "All the harm that befalls Sara from this point on is your doing, because you chose not to prevent it.  Farewell, my lord.  I can no longer serve you in this life."

Ian said nothing as she turned and left.  He stared into the fire, her words haunting him.  Her words had the ring of truth to them, and Ian could not just dismiss them.  Torn and uncertain, he wondered if it was too late to make things right with Sara, the next moment wondering why he should bother.  Love and hatred warring within him, he sat through the night struggling with his conflict and was no nearer an answer when the dawn found him staring into cold ashes.

Waking from the Dream 

Ian paced the floor of the mansion, tormented by his recent actions and behavior, and his involvement with Aras.  It was just after dawn, and he had spent all night staring at the fireplace, watching the flames die down into cold ash.  His mind reviewed the words of the servant, Mara, over and over, and the actions of both himself and Sara Pezzini.  What Mara had said was true.  Every word.  Sara was not the one at fault, he was.  And it did not matter if she ever forgave him, because he had proven himself unworthy by his actions and attitudes.  He just hoped he was not too late to put things right.

He was heading for the front door, his long black coat swirling around his ankles and out behind him, when he saw Mara coming down the hall form the servant's quarters with a suitcase in either hand.  He intercepted her, blocking her way until she looked up at him.

"Forgive me for not departing sooner, sir," she said quietly.  "By the time I finished packing it was very late and I had nowhere else to go."

"Please don't go, Mara," Ian said, taking one of her bags from her hands and setting it aside on the floor.  "I've been considering what you said all night, and I have come to the conclusion you were right about everything."

"You have chosen to believe in and support Sara as the true Wielder?"  Mara watched his eyes closely as he answered.

"Yes," Ian said simply, his gaze open, and she could see the honesty and determination there.

"What will you do now," Mara asked.

"I'm going to make things right," he answered, his expression turning grim.

"Even if it means killing Aras?  Even if Sara never forgives you?"

"Aras is not a true Wielder," Ian replied.  "If it becomes necessary, I will kill her."

"And Sara?"

"I do not deserve her forgiveness," he replied sadly, hanging his head.  "But I will serve her as best I can."

"Even unto your death?"

"It would be an honor to die for Sara," he said, his head coming up and his eyes shining.

"That is as it should be," Mara said, a satisfied smile on her lips.  Her voice took on an echoing quality, wrought of ancient power. "You have passed the test, Ian.  We find you worthy to serve this Wielder, as you have many lifetimes before.  Remember this lesson.  Now, awake, and go forth to serve."

Ian blinked.  Everything had shifted around him.  He was standing in the corner of Iron's office at the Vorschlag building, waiting for his master.  Dressed in his knit cap and overcoat, staring at his boots, in an all-too familiar pose.  Kenneth Irons, suave and powerful and alive, walked into the room, going over to the book that told of the Witchblade.  He reread the entry for November 11th, then turned to Ian.

"Go to the museum, Ian.  Wait for her.  The Blade will choose it's new mistress today.  Call me with your report as soon as she has it."

Ian nodded his head and left.  On his way to the museum he pondered his dream.  It had felt so real, yet now it had a distant quality.  He had a connection with the Witchblade, he always had.  Had it really been talking to him?  Had the whole thing really been a test?  A warning?  He shook his head.  Determination set in as he decided he would do everything in his power to keep his dream from becoming reality.   Forewarned, forearmed. 


	3. Ian Dreaming

Vacation Interlude: Ian Dreaming  
  
This is Rated R for sexual situations, so if you are going to be offended by the content, save us all the trouble of your ire by just skipping this one. Especially if you are under 18 and/or not mature enough to be reading this stuff. This is an interlude to the story A Much-Needed Vacation, after Chapter 6, but also stands very much on it's own. Point of view is from Ian.  
  
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~  
  
Always and forever, I dream of you.  
  
Darkness is softened by starshine, and the gentle night breezes stir the light curtains on the windows. You sleep. The soft buzz of the night insects provides counterpoint to your breathing. Your dark hair spreads across the linen pillowcase, one arm flung up over your head. I stand watching, always watching, waiting for the moment when your eyes will open and gaze into mine with the full knowledge of who and what I am to you, down through the ages, lifetime after lifetime.  
  
I dream.  
  
Your eyes open, dark in the darkness, but filled with a fire all their own. I am trapped, helpless in that gaze, afraid to move forward, unable to move away. You look at me as a woman looks at a man, and I dare to hope. so many things. You rise to a sitting position, leaning on one arm. The thin white satin strap of your nightgown slides off your shoulder and part way down your arm, tantalizing in what it almost reveals. My breath catches in my throat as you raise one graceful hand out to me.  
  
I dream.  
  
My own hand, rough and scarred, rises of its own will, or perhaps your will, to rest lightly in your grasp. You draw me to you, close enough that I can feel the heat of your body, the stirring of your breath against my skin. I can hear my heartbeat grow loud and fast in my ears, but still I can hear you breathe. My skin feels hot and icy all at once, and I shiver as you reach up to trace the line of my jaw with your finger. You grant me a rare and beautiful smile as you hear the sound I make deep in my throat.  
  
I dream.  
  
Shifting sinuously on the bed, you make room beside you and draw me down to sit, thigh to thigh, flesh to flesh. My body seems not to be my own, drawn tighter than a bowstring and responding on its own to your will, your gestures, your desires. It becomes a conscious effort to remember to breathe as you lightly drag your fingernails across my bare chest. Your eyes still hold mine, watching my every emotion pass through the windows to my soul, enjoying the feelings you evoke in me.  
  
I dream.  
  
Gently but insistently, you push me back until I lie flat on the sheets. Leaning half over me, you trace the lines of my body from the top of my head slowly, maddeningly, down to the waistband of my sleeping pants. Again and again you explore the texture of my skin, tracing the lines of my numerous scars, up and down my arms, my chest, my sides, my neck, my face, until I am quivering with the effort to remain still for your exploration.  
  
I dream.  
  
You flash me a wicked and sensuous grin and slide your hand beneath the waistband of my pants, to discover that those pants are all I wear to bed, or perhaps you already knew. I cry out as the heat of your hand envelopes my shaft. You squeeze firmly, then run your nails up and down it's length. I cannot control my body as I thrash about, the passion you ignite in me too much for my mortal flesh to contain. I roll and find myself falling, forever falling into the heat and passion of your touch.  
  
I wake.  
  
Panting, aching, and out of breath. I just wish I would quit falling out of bed when I dream of you. 


	4. Loneliness Shared

Set for Season 2, this is just a small interlude between Sara and Ian.  
  
Loneliness Shared  
  
She walked in twilight. The fading sun threw red fire onto her chestnut hair as it reached out from between clouds to caress her with the day's last kiss of light and warmth. Her slim form clad in her usual jeans and crop top, covered by the habitual leather jacket, she was strength and beauty, her tenderness and vulnerability hidden from the world. She walked slowly, but with purpose to her steps, heading to the bridge over a small creek that ran through the park. She leaned on the railing and stared down into the rushing water.  
  
He watched from the shadows, as he had many lifetimes before, always there in some form or another. Hesitating to approach, he held silent and still as the stars emerged from the darkening heavens, and the moon kissed the stream with silver. She shifted a bit, and his keen eyes caught a trail of silver on her cheek as well. Tears? It had been a trying day for her, he knew, but he had not expected the normally strong and collected detective to succumb to tears in public. His emotions roiled within him, wanting to go to her, to offer comfort, and yet strangely enjoying her pain as if it were his revenge for his own loss of his "father". He stood frozen in indecision as her tears fell one by one to be swallowed by the argent water below her feet.  
  
Footsteps approached, and his head snapped around. The tall youth stalked the detective as silently as his untrained skills allowed, a long blade in his hand. Perhaps the foolish boy intended to merely threaten Sara, perhaps attack her. Ian's protective instincts rose up. He noted Sara was as yet unaware of the boy, and decided to take matters into his hands. As the boy passed him he emerged from behind the tree and grabbed the wrist with the knife in a crushing grip. The boy yelped in surprise and pain, causing Sara to turn. She saw the knife fall from his hand as Ian twisted it up behind his back. She reached for her gun, but Ian turned the boy and shoved him hard back the way he had come, causing him to fall. He scrambled to his feet and fled back into the night.  
  
As Sara re-holstered her gun Ian approached her, pausing only to retrieve the knife and toss it into the stream. She watched him warily, unsure of his intentions, and in no mood to deal with riddles and hints. He stopped before her, raising one bare hand slowly to her cheek to brush the tears away. She shied away from his hand and turned back to stare down into the water. His expression betrayed hurt for a moment, but she didn't see it.  
  
"Why are you sad, Sara?" he asked softly.  
  
"I had a lousy day," she replied, her voice thick with tears she was trying not to shed.  
  
"Please, Sara," Ian coaxed. "Tell me what is wrong. I'd like to help."  
  
"Would you," she challenged, turning to him with fire in her eyes. "I thought you hated me for killing Irons, even though he was the one who stuck himself on my sword and not the other way around. I just wanted him to back off and leave me alone!" She was sick of his constant insistence that the whole thing had been her fault. She had been horrified when Irons had grabbed her hand and pulled the Blade into his throat. Her flash of anger startled Ian, and he paused to think back on the incident that had turned his world upside-down.  
  
"Forgive me, Sara," Ian said, taking a step back. "I have been unfair to you. I saw what really happened, but my mind wouldn't accept it. I just couldn't believe he would leave me like that." He looked down at the ground, his loose waves of dark hair sliding over his shoulders to obscure his face, except for his eyes when he glanced back up at her. "I do want to help."  
  
"You can't help," she said, turning away again. "No one can. I have to deal with this on my own."  
  
"Deal with what," he asked. Only his trained hearing made him able to catch her whispered reply.  
  
"Loneliness."  
  
"But Sara," he replied, "You are not alone."  
  
"There's a difference between being alone and being lonely," she informed him with a hint of rancor. "This thing," she pointed at the Witchblade, "isolates me from even my closest friend. I don't have anyone I can talk to about what is happening to me, what I'm going through. Not even Danny would understand."  
  
"I understand," Ian said. "You can talk to me."  
  
"No you don't," she snapped. "Because of this thing on my wrist I will die young and be alone when I do. It happened to Joan, Cleopatra, Cathain, all of them. I can't ever have an honest relationship because I will always have this big secret, and I won't even be able to explain why." A tear trickled a new path down her cheek.  
  
"But Sara, you don't have to be alone," Ian replied. "I understand your pain, because I too am alone. I am not like others, and there is no one who can understand that except you. If you share your loneliness with me, I will share mine with you, and perhaps in the sharing we will become less lonely."  
  
She stared at him for a long moment, turning his words over in her mind. He held his hand out to her, and after a moment she took it. He pulled her gently into the shelter of his arm and they leaned on the bridge's cold stone railing together, silently staring into the rushing waters below, each of them just a little less empty. 


	5. A Little Less Lonely

A Little Less Lonely

For those of you waiting for my next chapter of Storm, please don't hunt me down.  I am having a really hard time figuring out where to go from that last chapter.  I decided that until I get some inspiration for Storm I'd continue on with what I started in Loneliness Shared.  

Thanks to the usual suspects for your reviews and encouragement, it keeps me going!  Oh, and if any of you will be in Seattle this July for Westercon, I'll be there.  E-mail me and we can get together at the con!

*****      *****      *****       *****      *****       *****       *****        *****        ***** 

This little scene takes place about 2 weeks after Loneliness Shared.

The clouds loomed dark and heavy over the city, concealing the afternoon sun and shrouding the streets in gloom.  There was an edgy, electric feeling to the air, as if some great beast of lightning hovered above, waiting for the prefect moment to strike.  People were irritable, the oppressiveness of the impending storm making tempers short.  The street lamps had come on, casting puddles of watery light onto the grey sidewalks, between which scurried the few people daring enough to be out.  Through the static-charged air stalked the Wielder, intent on her quest, the threat of Nature's fury pushed to the back of her mind.

Jagged blue-white forks of lightning rent the sky, chased by ear-splitting rolling crashes of thunder, and as Sara looked up the clouds opened up to send down sheets of stinging rain.  The storm had broken at last.  She cursed under her breath and dashed for the doorway of the nearest coffee shop.  She managed to gain that haven without getting too soaked, stepping through the door with a grin as she realized it was actually one of her favorite places.

Glancing around as she waited in line to order, she was surprised to see it was fairly busy.  What few seats were left were filling up fast.  Oh well, she thought philosophically, better standing inside with a cup of good coffee than being outside in that rain.  When she got to the counter she smiled at the young cashier and ordered her "usual", which he called back without batting an eye, slipping her a blueberry muffin free of charge.  She had saved the place from getting robbed once, so the occasional complimentary muffin found it's way across the counter with her coffee.  She grinned her thanks and turned to try and find somewhere to sit.

The place boasted a small gas fireplace with a bench around it in one wall, and a scattering of small tables that could fit four, if all you had was coffee, everywhere else.  Every chair was taken, and every space on the bench in front of the fire except one spot on the end.  She wondered why noone was sitting there because there were several people standing, then she realized who was sitting next to that spot and grinned despite herself.  Ian, wrapped in his "stalker" coat, with his knit cap on, glowered at anyone who tried to sit there, and the unfortunate victim of his stare would beat a hasty retreat to go join the others stuck standing and watch the pounding rain outside.

Sara walked over to Ian with her coffee and muffin, her amusement evident in the smile hovering around the corners of her lips.  Ian looked up at her, his expression solemn, but a twinkle in his eyes.

"Is this seat taken," she asked him, gesturing with her cup.

"Strangely enough, it is not," he replied straight-faced.  She laughed and sat down next to him, her thigh against his, elbows bumping in the cramped space.

"Want some muffin," she asked.  He nodded and she broke it more or less in half, offering him the slightly smaller half on a napkin.  He took it with grave courtesy.

"Thank you, my lady," he said.

"So what brings you out on a day like today," she asked, curious.

"The feeling in the air made me restless," he replied.  "I couldn't relax or focus on anything, so I decided to get out for a bit.  Why are you out today, Sara?"

"I'm shopping," she admitted.  "Danny's birthday is coming up and I haven't decided what to get him yet."

A shadow passed across Ian's eyes, and he looked down quickly, pretending to be vitally interested in his muffin.  Sara noticed and stared at him for a minute.

"What's wrong, Ian," she asked, concerned.

"I…never really had a birthday," Ian admitted hesitantly.  Sara blinked, confused.

"What do you mean," she asked.

"Irons did not believe in celebrating birthdays," he explained.  "So I have never really noticed mine, except as another day on the calendar."

"You mean no cake, no presents, nothing?"  She was shocked.  He shook his head.

"Irons considered it a foolish vanity, a distraction from my training."

"That's awful," Sara said.

"It is not important in the larger scheme of things," Ian said, dismissing the subject.  She let it go, not wanting to push Ian when he obviously didn't want to discuss it.  They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Sara finished her coffee.  She stood, brushing muffin crumbs off her pants.  Ian stood with her.

"Well, I should get back to my shopping," she said.

"It's still pouring," Ian noted.  The rain was hitting the sidewalk hard, and showing no signs of letting up.

"I know," she said.  "But I really have to get my shopping done.  This is my only day off before Danny's birthday.  I don't really have any other time."

"Then perhaps you will allow me and my umbrella to accompany you," he asked hesitantly, indicating the black golf-sized umbrella by his side.  He expected her to turn him down.  Their relationship was still very awkward, and he could sense she wasn't very sure of him.

"Yeah," she said after a minute.  "That would be nice."

"Then, if my lady is ready," Ian offered his arm.  Sara only hesitated a moment before sliding her hand around it.  They paused at the door for Ian to open the umbrella, then stepped out into the storm together, each feeling that perhaps they were beginning to find a friend in the other.


	6. Shopping and Dinner

Shopping and Dinner

A/N: Okay, so it has taken me forever to post anything new.  I can only beg forgiveness and point mutely to the empty chair where my muse usually sits to read over my shoulder and offer suggestions (and occasionally poke me in the back).  I have been so very busy with RL stuff, and usually by the end of the day am far too stressed, tired, and/or distracted to sit and write anything new.  My apologies for the long wait.  I hope you like this addition.  It takes place directly after A Little Less Lonely.

After searching for over an hour Sara finally decided to get Danny a nice silk shirt, one he could wear out to dinner with his wife, and a gift certificate for a nice, but not too expensive, restaurant.  She took fifteen minutes at the drug store picking out just the right card, much to Ian's amusement.  He watched her curiously for a minute or two as she began reading cards, sometimes with a chuckle, sometimes with a frown or snort of disgust.  The fifth one she picked up had her laughing, and she passed it to Ian.

"This is hysterical," she said.  "You've got to read it."

He took the card she had thrust at him and read it, grinning himself as he finished and carefully put it back in its proper place.  After that they ended up passing cards back and forth, laughing together, until Sara finally announced "This is it!" and they headed for the register.  Ian had never seen Sara so relaxed, so free of worry, as she had been while looking at cards.  He had never seen her laugh so freely either.  He had always vaguely wondered at the tradition of giving cards, but now he understood a bit more about it.  There were things people had difficulty saying to one another, but you could say anything with a card.

As they headed back out into the pouring rain once more, arm in arm beneath Ian's umbrella, Ian wondered about this new relationship with Sara.  When she had held herself aloof from him and his master, he had felt suffocated by the weight of his feelings for her, nearly crushed by an intangible force when all he could do was watch, protect, and yearn.  Then she had gained the Witchblade at last, and she and Irons had fought, and Irons had been killed.  In his shock and loss he had blamed her, and the conflicting emotions of love and hate had nearly torn him apart.  At the park when he had finally faced his hate and rage and realized that she was not the cause, not at fault, he had been cast adrift in confusion.  But today he had been at ease, almost at peace, with Sara and the world in general.  Content to merely have her arm in his, needing nothing more than a touch and an occasional smile, he wondered at the difference.

"Are you done with your shopping, Sara," Ian asked.

"Yeah," she replied.  "I think this will do it."

"Then will you do me the honor of allowing me to take you to dinner," he asked a little hesitantly.

"I'd like that," she said after a moment.  "But I'm not really dressed for it."

"Neither am I," he noted somewhat ruefully.  "I would like to take you someplace nice.  May I escort you home, so you can change, and pick you up later?"

"To be honest, Ian," she confessed, "I'd rather just go to a cheap diner for a burger and a coffee.  Don't get me wrong," she said as his expression changed to disappointment.  "I really appreciate the thought.  It's very sweet of you.  But I'm just not as comfortable all dressed up and worrying if I'm using the wrong fork as I am hanging out at a casual place with my elbows on the table."

"I think I understand," he said.

"Besides, it isn't the atmosphere that's important, it's the company," she said with a smile, squeezing his arm.  He smiled back, good humor restored.  It wasn't him she objected to, after all.

"As my Lady wishes," he said gallantly.  "Where to?"

"How about Murray's, just a few blocks up from here," she suggested.  "Good coffee, better milkshakes."

"Lead the way," he said.

Murray's wasn't crowded but it was fairly busy.  Sara chose a table towards the center of the restaurant, to Ian's dismay.  He would have preferred to have his back to a wall but Sara explained the service was better in the middle because if it got really busy the waitress sometimes got flagged down too many times to make it all the way to the back to bring you more coffee.  Knowing how much Sara loved her coffee, Ian bowed to her logic and sat, trying to ignore the crawling feeling between his shoulder blades.

"Hey, Detective," the waitress said cheerfully as she poured Sara a cup of coffee.  "Your usual?"

"No, Anne," Sara told her, "I'm gonna have a burger today, with the works, a chocolate shake, and fries."

"Sure thing," the waitress said, then turned to Ian.  "What about you, handsome?  Coffee?"

"Yes, please," Ian said, blushing a bit, not used to being referred to as "handsome".  "I'd also like a chicken Caesar salad and a glass of water."

"You bet," she replied, bustling off to place their orders without bothering to write it down.  Ian watched her, bemused, then turned back to Sara.

"You have a usual here," he asked, quirking up one eyebrow in question.

"I tend to have the same thing a lot," she shrugged.  "And I tip well.  That gets you remembered."

"I see," he said.  "So what is your usual?"

"Coffee and a salad," she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief.  "Specifically the chicken Caesar."

"So I am having your usual, then" he asked, catching her amusement.

"Yup." She grinned.

When their meals arrived Ian had to admit the salad was better than he had expected, and Sara was thoroughly enjoying her burger and milkshake.  Anne had thoughtfully brought Ranch dressing for Sara's fries, and Ian finally agreed to try the dressing on a fry.  He was dubious about the combination but found himself liking it quite a bit.  Every time Sara looked away he snagged another fry and dipped it into the Ranch, and Sara would glance back to catch him stuffing it into his mouth.  She would quirk an eyebrow in amusement but say nothing about it.  It got to be quite the game, until Sara ran out of fries and Ian had to flag down Anne and order more.  Then Sara stole Ian's fries.

The Witchblade swirled and hissed on Sara's wrist, and Ian watched her intently as her eyes glazed a bit while a vision was thrust on her.  It lasted only a few moments, then Sara shook her head sharply and looked over at him.

"Something's about to happen," she told him.

"Do you know what," he asked, alertness and tension radiating from him.

"The images were too confused, too short," she said, shaking her head.  "I think whatever it is will happen here, and happen soon."

"Do you wish to leave," Ian asked.

"No," she said.  "I think I'm supposed to be here."

The bells hanging above the restaurant's front door chimed, causing Sara to jump slightly.  Ian was too disciplined to jump, but his wary gaze rested on the man who had walked in.  He seemed tense, and Ian thought he could make out the outline of a shotgun barrel under his long coat.  Sara turned her head, looked the newcomer over quickly, then turned away before she was seen staring.  She looked at Ian, seeing the same realization in his eyes.

"That was fast," she said quietly.  Ian nodded.   "Let's go pay our bill," she suggested, pulling a few bills out of her pocket as she rose.  Ian was at her side and they approached the front counter where the man with the shotgun had stopped.  He glared at them, took two steps back from the register as he couple approached, then in one smooth move pulled the shotgun out from under his coat and pointed it at them.

"Nobody move!" he shouted, then pointed the gun at Anne who had just come out front from the kitchen.  "Open the register and the safe.  I want all the money.  Now!"

Anne hurried to the register, pale and clearly terrified, pulling money out and shoving it across the counter at him.  He stuffed it into his coat pocket, still pointing the shotgun one-handed at her.  Ian and Sara exchanged a look, waiting.  When the register was empty of cash Anne stepped back and waited.

"I said the safe too," the robber growled.

"Noone here has the combination," she said.

"Bullshit," he growled, bringing his other hand up to the gun and putting it against his shoulder, preparing to fire.  Anne shrank back.  In that moment he was focused on Anne the robber wasn't paying any attention to Ian or Sara.  Sara moved to his left and pulled her pistol, aiming it at the robber's head.  Ian moved to his right and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, forcing it upward as the robber pulled the trigger so the shot went into the ceiling, scattering bits of yellowed acoustic tile everywhere.  As the robber turned in surprise to Ian, the assassin hit him hard in the face and yanked the shotgun from his grasp.  As Ian disarmed the robber Sara moved forward, her pistol at his head.

"Police," she spat at him.  "You're under arrest."

The robber turned to look at her, starting to raise his hands, then lunged at her.  Sara stepped back, still pointing her gun steadily, as Ian grabbed him by the collar and yanked him backwards hard enough to choke him and pull him off his feet.  He landed on the ground on his back, coughing and gasping.

"Anne, call 911, tell them an officer needs assistance," Sara instructed the astonished waitress as Ian pulled the robber to his feet and pinned his arms up high behind his back.  The robber yelped as his muscles were strained and the joints threatened to pop out in his shoulders, and Ian grinned evilly.

Sara had finished reading the robber his rights when a police cruiser pulled up outside the diner, lights flashing, and two officers hurried in.  Sara showed the senior officer her badge while the other handcuffed the robber and hustled him off to the squad car.  Then the process of collecting everyone's statements started.  By the time they could finally sit back down, the remains of Sara's milkshake had melted and Ian's fries were cold.  Anne came over with fresh coffee and fresh fries a moment later.

"Your meal is on the house," she said.  "So you better order dessert.  Compliments of all of us with our thanks."

"It was our pleasure," Ian said, smiling at Anne, and she blushed.  Sara took that moment to steal another one of his fries.

"So what'll you have for dessert," Anne asked.

"Hm, I think I'd like the apple pie, warmed, with vanilla ice cream on the top," Sara decided.

"I would like the hot fudge sundae," Ian said.  "With extra whipped cream."

Anne nodded and left.  Ian looked over at Sara who was staring at him with an eyebrow raised.

"What?" he asked.

"I never pictured you as the extra whipped cream type," Sara said, amused.

"I happen to like whipped cream," he replied, looking at her from beneath his eyelashes, one curling lock of hair falling in front of his eyes.  "You would be surprised at how many things you can do with whipped cream," he finished, his voice almost a purr.

Sara stared at him for a moment, shocked at his suggestive tone.  The Witchblade took advantage of the moment of distraction to send her an image of Ian standing above her, both buck naked, holding a can of spray-on whipped cream and a big grin.  She choked and jerked back from the vision, glaring down at the gently swirling red stone on her wrist, her cheeks coloring.

"Another vision, Sara," Ian asked, concern coloring his voice.

"Not exactly," she replied, looking back up at him.  "More like the damn thing is teasing me."

"Ah," he said, curious as to what the Witchblade could have shown her to make her react in such a fashion, but letting it drop as he sensed Sara's discomfort.  At that moment Anne put their desserts down in front of them.  Sara's ice cream was slowly sliding off the crust as it melted from the heat of the pie, and Ian's sundae was nearly buried in whipped cream, with two cherries on top.  Sara watched as Ian picked up one cherry by the stem and sucked the whipped cream off of it before popping the whole thing into his mouth.  Moments later he pulled the stem back out, neatly tied in a knot, and put it on his plate.

"You're not eating your pie," Ian noted as she continued to stare, unable to shake the brief image the Witchblade had thrust into her head.  She shook herself, blushed, and picked up her fork.  Ian chuckled to himself, able to guess something of what the Witchblade had shown her from all her blushing.  Perhaps she knew something of the uses of whipped cream after all, he mused.  He decided to have some fun, his impish side, rarely indulged, coming to the fore.  He stuck his finger into the whipped cream, swirling it around, then sucking it into his mouth, sliding it back out cleaned of the cream and glistening with his saliva.  Sara was blatantly staring now, and something in her eyes had changed subtly.  He picked up his spoon as if he hadn't noticed and began eating the sundae.  Sara shook herself and returned to her pie.

When dessert was done Ian escorted Sara back home.  She was thoughtfully quiet most of the way, and he respected her silence and left her to her thoughts.  He had many of his own to sort through as well.  As he said goodnight to her at her door, the proper gentleman, she stopped him with a hand on his arm as he turned to leave.

"Thank you for helping with the guy at the diner," she said.  "And for everything else today.  I had a really good day."

"You are most welcome, my Lady," Ian replied.  "I had a really good day too."

Before he could turn away she leaned over and kissed him lightly on his lips.  His eyes flared wide in surprise at her action, then he grinned at her, inclined his head and said, "Goodnight, my Lady."

"Goodnight, Ian," she replied.  She watched him as he turned and sauntered down the hall, then closed and bolted her door when he was out of sight.  She had a very hard time falling asleep that night.


End file.
